


Coated

by Batik



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Multi, Sherlock's Coat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 17:17:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3496445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batik/pseuds/Batik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Well, there's John. And Sherlock. And some coats. Oh, and smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coated

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cemm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cemm/gifts).



> This is my second attempt at being on time for the Come at Once Challenge over on LJ. This is not the same fic from my first try. That will be forthcoming — someday.
> 
> Thanks to nichellen, yellowmiche and cwb for the quick beta-ing. And thanks to Cemm for the totally happy-making conversation that led to this idea!

John had made it through a half day at the clinic, stopped at the Tesco up the street for a few groceries and, after a leisurely stroll home and a few minutes spent stashing the produce in the thankfully clean crisper box, sat down in his chair with the latest Carl Hiaasen book and a cup of Oolong.

Sherlock wasn’t home, which wasn’t unusual, so John didn’t worry. He instead took advantage of the quiet flat and a chance to read without Sherlock telling him the ending before he’d finished the first page. (Though Greg had told him when he recommended the book that Hiaasen’s plots and characters were quirky enough that they might foil Sherlock longer than normal. One chapter in, John was beginning to suspect Greg was right.)

John was so involved in the book that he didn’t realize he had company until the door to the sitting room opened and Sherlock strolled in, casually pulling his leather gloves from individual fingers on his way to shucking them entirely.

“Hi!” John tossed out the greeting automatically as he looked up, though anything he would have said after that went momentarily unspoken as John got a good look at Sherlock. “Well, that’s, um, different.”

“Not good?”

“No. No, it’s, um, fine. It’s just, um, I don’t know that I’ve ever seen you in a coat that wasn’t your Belstaff when you weren’t undercover for a case.”

Sherlock had finished removing his gloves but made no move to remove the coat — a solid grey wool creation, not as long as the Belstaff but still falling almost to his knees. The generous shawl collar had, of course, been flipped up to frame his face and emphasize those razor-sharp cheekbones. The wine-colored mock turtleneck jumper underneath also was a different look for Sherlock but certainly didn’t detract from the fashionable image he presented, and John was reminded again of how many times he’d considered that his flatmate could have been a fashion model had he so desired.

John wanted to ask where the new coat had come from and where the Belstaff had gone, but he was still trying to identify the sudden pang in his groin when Sherlock gave a slight nod of his head and disappeared into his bedroom, shutting the door quietly but firmly behind him.

After staring at the closed door for a moment longer than necessary, John shifted in his chair, shook his head to dislodge any lingering thoughts about _that_ coat on _that_ man and returned to reading.

He had made it part-way through Chapter 2 when he heard the sitting room door open again.

“You’re going out, then?” he asked as he finished reading the current sentence.

“What do you mean? I just got here.”

“What?” John definitely looked up at that — to see Sherlock standing just inside the open door. This time, he was wearing a dark blue-bordering-on-plum coat that just covered his hips. A dark fur collar rested flat along his shoulders and black leather gloves mirrored the black leather detailing of coat’s cuffs. “Wait, when did you leave again? And why did you change clothes?”

“You’re babbling, John.”

“But …”

And Sherlock — coat still on — disappeared into his bedroom and closed the door behind him.

John sat there, again staring at the closed bedroom door and feeling confused. He would have sworn Sherlock was in his room and had been for a while.

“Get it together, Watson,” he muttered to himself. “You obviously fell asleep reading and just didn’t hear him leave earlier.” Either that or Sherlock laced the tea, in which case it’s already too late to stop whatever experiment he has planned.  
And with that, John willed away the subtle flare of interest his penis had taken in the vision of Sherlock sporting fur and leather trim, adjusted his jeans and resumed reading.

Until it happened again. And again. And again.

By the time Sherlock, in a casual black-and-white wool jacket with ribbed collar and cuffs, and then in a blue peacoat with military styling, buckles and another popped collar, had disappeared into his bedroom, John had given up on reading and let the the book rest in his lap. If its placement helped to hide the return of a now-not-so-subtle semi-erection from all-too-knowing eyes, well, what a happy coincidence.

 

But when a shirtless Sherlock in a leather bomber jacket with a sheepskin collar disappeared into his bedroom, John had had enough.

OK, honestly, he hadn’t come anywhere close to having enough. That was the problem. But he’d had enough of pretending he’d suddenly developed a severe case of narcolepsy that prevented him from realizing that Sherlock had been leaving the flat and returning all afternoon.

John noted the number of the page he was on, shut the book, gave one uncomfortable press to his far-too-interested denim-clad cock, stood and strode down the hall to stand before Sherlock’s closed door. He was tempted to simply walk in, to see what maddening experiment he might stumble upon, but he’d chastised Sherlock about boundaries often enough. He knocked and waited, his hand on the doorknob in anticipation.

“What took you so long, John?” Sherlock’s deep voice carried easily through the door, and John imagined he felt the doorknob vibrate under his grasp as he turned it and pushed the door open.

John wasn’t sure what he was expecting to see when he entered but, as he stood in the doorway, he knew it wasn’t that.

Sherlock’s bed — the centerpiece of the room — had been transformed into a nest of coats. Long ones, short ones, dress coats, casual coats. John figured there had to be a few dozen of them.

Amid it all was Sherlock, naked and face down, angled across the bed and head tilted to one side just enough to allow him to breathe. He clutched with long fingers at the fabric of a fuzzy black coat that doubled as a pillow. His legs were spread and his hips were canted up.

John had a clear view of everything, including a second man who was lying on his back, positioned under Sherlock and between his legs, forehead to abdomen. His lips were wrapped around Sherlock’s cock where it hung down, hard and proud, and his hands were splayed across Sherlock’s arse, spreading him wide.

 

A third man was positioned on his knees at Sherlock’s back, his shins nestled between the ribs of the man beneath Sherlock and Sherlock’s own thighs as he smoothly but firmly thrust into Sherlock’s stretched hole. A fourth man, after spreading his own legs wider to lower his stance at the edge of the bed, started fucking himself between Sherlock’s plush lips and into his open mouth, not hard enough to do any damage but hard enough to draw forth the heady moans that followed each plunge.

Another man was kneeling on the far side of Sherlock, one hand tangled in his curls as he bent to lick broad stripes across Sherlock’s rim and the fourth man’s cock where the two met.

John instantly went hard in his jeans and he felt the heat rise up his chest to his face as he stammered an apology. He started to back out of the room, intent on closing the door and getting as far away as possible, when five bodies stilled, five heads turned his way — and John was freshly transfixed.

All five men were — Sherlock?

Before his brain could process what he was seeing and decide if it was going to short-circuit or allow him to ask what Baskerville experiment made that scenario possible, the Sherlock who had been the primary recipient of all that attention spoke, his voice raspy with arousal and the recent abuse of his throat.

“No, John. Stay. Join us.”

And all hands that weren’t otherwise occupied gestured for John to come nearer.

John hesitated for just a moment, the thought flitting through his head that this would definitely change things in his still-identifiable-as-platonic relationship with Sherlock. But, damn if he would be able to look himself in the mirror ever again if he let this moment pass him by.

John’s hands were steady — unlike his heart rate — as he quickly shed his clothes and moved toward the bed, his hand brushing in hesitation over the sheepskin collar of the bomber jacket in lieu of touching one of the Sherlocks.

The fourth Sherlock — the one who was steadily fucking Sherlock’s mouth — held out a hand filled with lube before wrapping his hand around John and stroking the moisture along his length.

John drew in a sharp breath between his teeth as a wave of desire made his cock pulse. He bit hard on his lower lip to regain his control, horrified at the idea of coming before he’d had a chance even to touch Sherlock.

Then the Sherlock who had been filling Sherlock’s arse so thoroughly pulled out and scooted back on the bed in clear invitation for John to take his spot.

John clambered into position behind the primary Sherlock, placing his shins as the other man’s had been. The Sherlock under him slid his hands down to the crease where primary Sherlock’s arse met thigh and John carefully, reverently rested his palms flat on the firm muscles of Sherlock’s buttocks.

Primary Sherlock gasped at the contact, the sound coming out a bit strangled around the cock in his mouth, and John squeezed, the temptation suddenly too much to resist any longer.

“Christ, Sherlock,” John said, licking his lips as he let his eyes trail up Sherlock’s spine and back down to rest on his stretched hole. “Please tell me you want me in you.”

The Sherlock who had settled behind John pulled up to his knees from kneeling to rest his chin on John’s shoulder, next to his ear, and suckled at the lobe.

“Don’t be an idiot,” he said. “Of course he wants you. We all want you.”

Primary Sherlock pushed back his hips as much as he could with his cock currently down another Sherlock’s throat and moaned loudly around the penis in his own mouth, a deep, dark sensuous sound that had John’s penis bobbing into the air.

Then the Sherlock behind pressed himself against John’s back, wrapped his hand around John’s girth and leaned the two of them forward until John’s cock was lined up with Sherlock’s hole. Another nudge and John stopped breathing as he slowly slid into the tight heat of Sherlock’s arse. Looking down to watch his cock disappear, he was transfixed as the Sherlock beneath slid his hands back up Sherlock’s buttocks until he could slide the tips of his middle fingers into Sherlock alongside John, further filling Sherlock. Those fingers also added even more stimulation for John, as if simply being inside Sherlock wasn’t enough to make John desperate to stave of his orgasm for even a few strokes.

John ran his hands down Sherlock’s back, tracing his spine with his thumbs as he pumped into Sherlock. He leaned back, baring his neck as Sherlock behind sucked a bruise at the point where his neck met shoulder. He felt strong but graceful fingers slide up his ribcage and find his nipples, plucking at them the way John often had seen them pluck at the strings of Sherlock’s violin.

“Fuck,” John gasped, the word ending on a high-pitched whine as he felt warm, wet fingers slide between his own arse cheeks and press at his hole.

“Better than the best sounds I’ve ever pulled from an instrument,” Sherlock behind said, pressing home until two fingers had made it first-knuckle deep past John’s rim. “And such a gorgeous instrument it is. So warm, so giving.”

John’s head lolled on the shoulder of the Sherlock behind him as he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to gain some control over his body.

“Open your eyes, John. Watch.”

It was a struggle but his tone brooked no argument. John took a steadying breath and opened his eyes, raising his head and looking down just as the Sherlock beside them resumed his previous position and licked a stripe across John’s cock as it pushed slowly into Sherlock. Sherlock’s hole fluttered at the renewed sensation just as the Sherlock behind him thrust his fingers deeper into John and pinched one nipple.

The sound John made as his orgasm hit was nothing recognizable in any human language. It was pulled from him as harshly as his come, and he drove deep into Sherlock, triggering a chain reaction.

Standing Sherlock withdrew his cock from primary Sherlock’s mouth just in time to paint his lips and one cheek — and that fuzzy black coat — with ribbons of come. The Sherlock beneath felt primary Sherlock tense, so he swallowed around his cock to push him over the edge. Then he opened his throat to take as much of primary Sherlock’s ejaculate as possible.

Sherlock beneath then came, untouched, his come splattering across pale abdominals and Sherlock behind’s testicles. Sherlock behind then slid his cock between John’s thighs, relying on the friction of his head against John’s testicles to push him into his orgasm.

Sherlock beside came last, taking himself in hand and stroking until he, too, was leaving ropes of come where he’d just had his tongue — at the point where John’s cock still filled primary Sherlock’s arse.

For a long moment after that, no one moved as breathing took priority. At first, no one had the fine motor skills left to disentangle themselves, and collapsing into a heap when that many people were involved was understood as too risky.

Then the Sherlock behind pulled back, John shifted to rest by the Sherlock beside and the Sherlock beneath made his way out from under primary Sherlock.

Primary Sherlock finally let himself fall, lithe body hitting the nest of coats none too gracefully. There was shifting and prodding and nudging as everyone found a spot.

And, half lying across primary Sherlock, John slept.

∞ ∞ ∞

John awoke to the sound of the sitting room door opening and raised a sleep-befuddled gaze as Sherlock crossed the threshold. He had several garment bags draped over his shoulder and he swung them around before laying them across the coffee table.

“You’re … you’re wearing the Belstaff,” John said, still hoping his nap-slowed brain would pick up speed soon.

“Very good, John,” Sherlock said drily. “But I always wear the Belstaff, unless I’m undercover for a case.”

“But what about the grey coat? And the blue ones — and the bomber jacket?”

“John? Are you OK? You didn’t get into the PG Tips decaf, did you? I warned you weeks ago that it wasn’t safe.”

“But … you had coats.”

“John, you’re not making any sense. Did Mycroft tell you I was considering buying a new coat?”

John raised his hands to rub at sleep-crusted eyes and one brushed across the book in his lap. His eyes widened as he realized what had happened: He had fallen asleep reading. The crazy plot in the book had nothing to do with coats but apparently hadn’t stopped John’s subconscious from blending the craziness into a coat-heavy sex dream starring his flatmate.

“Christ.” John wasn’t sure in that moment if he should curse the book for spawning his dream — perhaps the best he’d ever had — or thank it for covering an erection that would have been obvious to Sherlock from across the room. “Uh, nevermind. Sleep brain. Um, what’s in the bags?”

“Well, coats. I’m trying to pick out an alternative in case something ever happens to the Belstaff. Care to give me your opinion on what works?”

John closed his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath before he reopened his eyes, stood and crossed to Sherlock, posture straight and sure.

“You know good and well you’ll look amazing in anything in that bag,” John said, chin out. “But, right now, if you’re agreeable, instead of playing dress-up, I’d rather the two of us stop dancing around the thing between us that everyone else on the planet spotted ages ago. Once we’ve sorted that, I would like to kiss you. And, if that goes well and you’re still OK with it, I’d like for us to end up naked together in your bed.”

“Finally!” Sherlock said, his eyes lighting up even as they went dark with arousal. “For now, let’s consider it discussed and cut to the naked-kissing-in-bed part. The coats can wait.”

“Or, you could bring them with us. As good as you’ll look in any of them, I’m pretty sure you’ll look even better sprawled out naked on top of them.”

And then John was kissing Sherlock and something — everything — was different … and better.

They didn’t take the time to bother with the coats that afternoon, too impatient to mess with plastic bags, wooden hangers, fasteners. But it wasn’t long before Sherlock deduced that John had developed a thing for him in (and out of) coats and set about bringing to life the dream he didn’t know John had had. (Well, except for that multiple Sherlocks part. Mycroft had people working on the whole cloning thing, but they weren’t there yet.)

For John, it was all fine. One Sherlock and one John were more than enough to keep each other satisfied. Though they both ended up with many more coats in their closet than they’d had in the beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope the ending doesn't ruin it for anyone. I remember the traumatic "Dallas" days when the writers erased an entire season's work, simply by having Pam wake up. But it does make for a lovely dream, I think. (Well, I wouldn't mind having it.) And I've toyed with this idea for several months now. I love the cloning fics I've read (particularly AxeMeAboutAxinomancy's "For Mad Science, John" series!) But clean-up is much easier this way, and science was never my strongest subject in school.


End file.
